DISCLAIMER: Hetalia: Axis Powers Hidekaz Himaruya

THE CALL OF THE WILD

RENEGADES


THREE

JULY

ONE WEEK LATER

Arthur awoke in a terrible, gut-wrenching pain. He bit his pillow to keep from crying-out. His hands instinctively went to his bulging abdomen, clawing at the womb. It felt different somehow, as if the pup inside was trying to physically communicate that it wanted to be born. Arthur wondered how long he had been in labour for before the pain of it had finally woke him. He hoped he hadn't cried-out in his sleep, but his brothers would have woken if he had. Careful not to disturb them, Arthur crawled out of the sleeping-roll, which was mercifully dry—his waters hadn't broken yet—and collected his satchel, which was packed with the apothecary box and some supplies. It was heavy. He had hidden tools inside, the tools he would need to bring his pup safely into the world. He had studied several texts on the subject, wanting to be prepared, but, as he left the comfort and safety of his family's campsite, he felt scared. More scared than he had ever been in his whole life. At the edge of the forest, he stopped and cast one last look behind him. He had been waiting for this day for nine months, but now that it had finally come, he didn't want to leave. He didn't feel ready. But he didn't have a choice.

"Goodbye," he whispered to his family. Then he walked into the dark, dense forest alone.

He didn't get far before he had to rest, collapsed against a tree as labour-pains wracked him. The weight of the satchel fell with an audible thump, nearly knocking him off-balance. Beads of cold sweat slicked his skin and he gasped, trying to breathe deeply. The contractions were excruciating. He recalled reading about them from an Alpha-written text, wherein the author had described labour as being a mild discomfort. Arthur grit his teeth in anger. 'Mild discomfort' my fucking arse! If I ever meet that Alpha, I'll kill him!

When the pain subsided, he continued on. He had already scouted a place to give birth, close enough to hike to (though he hadn't considered having to walk while in labour), but far enough from the Standing Stones that no one would hear or smell him. That thought, though designed to comfort and protect his secret, proved the most terrifying yet. He was about to give birth, after all. What if something went wrong? What if he wasn't strong enough to deliver, or what if his pup was too weak to survive? What if either of them needed help, but he was too far to call for aid?

Please be strong, my darling. Another contraction seized him and Arthur groaned. And please don't kill me!

By the time Arthur reached his destination, he was already exhausted. The full moon was bright and high in the night's sky, which was a good omen. An Old Wives Tale said that pups born by the light of the full moon would be stronger than those who weren't. Arthur, who was hereditarily superstitious, took comfort in the ages-old legend as he shuffled into the dry cave. He had found it a week ago by accident and realized at once that it was perfect. It had been recently occupied and then abandoned. There was a fire-pit and a couple leftover articles of weathered clothing, which Arthur used to pad his bedding. He wasted no time in preparing a nest. He unpacked his satchel and then collapsed in a heap onto a blanket, leaning back against the cool rock. Sweat coated his skin, which was leeched of colour. His lips were dry; he was very thirsty. I must look sick. He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to focus on breathing calmly as the contractions started coming closer-and-closer together, becoming more unbearable. Every few minutes, he pictured himself fainting and his pup suffocating to death, only half-born, and it was that horrible fear that kept him going. He didn't have a choice. There was only one way out of this and he was determined to survive it.

Alphas have their fights; this is mine, he thought courageously.

Even so, a part of him wished that he wasn't alone. He wished that his brothers were there (even the twins), even though it was socially unacceptable for an Alpha to be present at a birth. He didn't have anyone else. He didn't have an Omega in his life. I want my Omega-mother, he thought suddenly, crying; grieving for the Omega-mother he had barely known. He had never called-out for her before, but just then he was scared. I want Scott. I want Owen. He thought of the older brothers who always protected him. He knew there was nothing they could do for him now, but he didn't think that he would be so afraid if they were there; talking to him; holding his hand. I don't want to do this alone. I want—Francis. He hated how desperately he wanted the blue-eyed Alpha to be there with him, comforting him; standing guard. That's what an Alpha-mate was supposed to do for his family. He was supposed to guard them, protect them, while his Omega gave birth. And when it was over he was supposed to be there to care for his newborn as his Omega recovered. A newborn needed an Alpha just as much as it needed an Omega.

But would he have stayed? Would he have stayed with us if he had known the truth? Maybe he would have. Maybe, but—

"I'm sorry," Arthur gasped, rubbing his abdomen. "I'm so sorry, my darling—A-ah!"

Finally, after hours of sobbing and moaning himself hoarse, he felt his pup's body begin to stir. He reached down and gingerly felt that he was ready to deliver. He shifted his position and lifted himself higher, his legs splayed. It was an uncomfortable position, but it was the best that he could manage without assistance. He had laid down clean linens under him, and had a pile of soft furs to swaddle his pup in, as well as sterile instruments to sever their physical bond. He had a basin of boiled water to clean the pup once born, and a woven basket to lay it in as a makeshift cradle. And he had tinder and a hand-shovel to bury the mess—the evidence—when it was over. The last preparation he made was putting a wad of cloth into his mouth as a gag. Then he took a deep breath—

—and screamed.

With his eyes squeezed shut, tears on his cheeks, Arthur screamed into the gag as he pushed his pup from his body into the world.

When it slid into his waiting hands his heart momentarily stopped. It was small—too small!—and very still. It felt like forever before it cried-out, loud and shrill and alive, and he exhaled in relief. At least you've got strong lungs, he thought as he preformed the post-birth tasks. It wasn't until he had gotten past the delicate mechanics of cleaning and swaddling the pup—an Omega-male—and was sitting back with the pup cradled in his arms that it finally struck him. He, Arthur Kirkland, had successfully given birth. He was alive. And he had an Omega-pup.

"You're mine," he said in awe. His voice was trembling with happy disbelief. More tears flooded his eyes; he couldn't seem to stop. "My pup. My precious little pup. Yes," he chuckled, smiling down at the tiny, squirming bundle. "I know you. I've known you for a long time, love. Do you know me?"

As if in reply, the newborn opened his eyes and revealed striking sapphire-blue.

But Arthur didn't have time to rejoice, because at that moment a sudden needle of pain pulsed through him. Panicked, he put the pup into the basket beside him and re-positioned himself, bracing himself. He was expecting the mess of afterbirth, but that's not what he delivered. In fact, it felt like wicked déjà vu as he moaned and pushed and finally caught the second pup as it was born. Shocked and shaking violently, Arthur repeated the process of cleaning and swaddling his second Omega-male.

"Twins," he whispered, admiring the pup's soft, pink face. He was quieter than his brother, and even smaller; he barely cried. "Well, it's no wonder I couldn't feel you, love. Not if you don't assert yourself," he chuckled, flustered. A teardrop fell onto the pup's cheek and his eyes fluttered open to greet the world. Arthur was expecting blue, or even green, but what he saw was beautiful violet. "Oh, wow!" he exhaled, overwhelmed by emotion and sleep-deprivation. "My pup. My beautiful, perfect pups," he cooed. He lifted the blue-eyed pup into his arms and held the twins together against his chest, rocking them gently. "My precious pups. I love you. I love you both so much." He kissed the brow of one, then the other. "I'm going to take care of you. I'm going to protect you. We'll be okay, I promise."

Then he was crying for real, great, heaving sobs of desperation.

We're going to be okay. Somehow—he didn't know how—I'm going to make everything okay. I have to.

"Alfred. Matthew," he named them, "I love you."


Francis tore through a thorny bramble patch, bloodying the leaves. A branch cut his cheek. He tumbled out, shook off, and broke into a sprint. He could hear his pursuers yelling and howling as they caught his scent. There were half-a-dozen of them and they were gaining on him. Francis panted hard as he dashed into the gully, kicking up water. It was icy cold, but he barely felt it. His heart was hammering as he ran, slipping on rocks and mud. When the stony riverbed opened into a fast-flowing river, he dove beneath the surface and continued to fight the current, swimming upstream as fast as he could.

It had been an honest mistake. Francis had thought that they were clan-members, a rogue pack, perhaps, but Islanders nonetheless. But he had been wrong—very wrong. They weren't Islanders; they were invaders. A scouting-party of Mainlanders who had crossed the narrow channel with the single-minded intention of plundering the Isles. Francis recognized their deep, growling voices, the language they spoke. They're of the Northern clans, he groaned. I hate Northerners! They were big and strong and fast and brutal, and they had not liked Francis trying to get friendly with them. He had been so grateful to spot their humble campsite initially, to smell the sweetness of roasting meat. Francis had been wandering alone for a week. He was starving and so tired that his body ached. All he wanted was a safe place to rest. He had approached the Northerners from downwind, making no attempt to hide himself. He hadn't wanted to surprise them or put them on-guard. Maybe, if he proved his worth to them, they would even let him stay. He had felt a fleeting shred of hope at the thought of belonging once more, but it evaporated when the six Northern Alphas turned on him. They looked dangerous, like warriors, each of them bigger and older than he. In that moment, all of Francis' arrogant self-confidence had fled and he suddenly felt like a helpless pup. He had ran and inadvertently provoked them to the chase.

Francis gasped as he broke the water's surface. He swam to the shallow bank and pulled himself halfway out, then collapsed there. He didn't have the strength to rise. If the Northerners found him, they wouldn't encounter much of a fight. But it seemed like the water had worked; they had lost his scent.

Francis closed his eyes. His breathing had regulated, lulling him into sleep. He knew that he should crawl out of the water. Even in July he could catch the cold-death if he stayed there all night, but he didn't move.

Why bother? he thought, depressed. Where would I go? Who would care if I died?

Half-asleep, his mind wandered to Arthur. Again. Since leaving the Standing Stones behind, he had not been able to get the Omega out of his head, no matter how hard he tried. He couldn't forget about him; his looks; his voice; his un-Omega-like attitude, which was sexy and fierce. He couldn't forget the heartbreaking way Arthur had looked at him and said: "I can't be your mate." Francis had tried to ignore his aching heart and consider other Omegas to mate, but it had been a hollow attempt. It hadn't felt right, as if he was cheating on Arthur. After that, he had left the Stones.

Stupid, selfish Omega! he thought in grief. He clawed at the black mud, wanting to inflict some form of pain; it ground beneath his fingernails. Why did you reject me? Why wasn't I good enough for you? Why—he fought back a surge of raw emotion—can't I forget you?

Have you forgotten me?


FIVE DAYS LATER

Your papa gave us this," said Arthur, repackaging the last oilskin-wrapped parcel of foodstuff he had taken. He hung it from the ceiling in a sack, licking salt residue off his fingers. There was a hook wedged there, driven into the rock by the cave's previous occupant. Arthur was eternally grateful to him, whomever he had been. Finding the cave already civilized had been a blessing that had made the transition from spoiled only-Omega into lone runaway much easier. Arthur didn't think he would have had the energy to do it himself, not so soon after giving birth. The food that Francis had gifted him helped, as well. He couldn't believe he had ever tried to refuse it, knowing that he had a pup(s) on the way. Who am I kidding? Scott's right, I can't hunt! In retrospect, he only wished that he had taken more.

"Your papa wanted us to have this," he told his pups, who were following his movements with curious eyes. They were both observant little things, both bright-eyed in wonder; Matthew more than Alfred, who had been asleep for most of his life. Just then, however, they were both waiting to be fed. Carefully, Arthur crawled down off the rock-ledge, hissing as a needle of pain pinched him. It had only been five days since the twins' birth and Arthur's body was still healing. "Your papa is a good hunter, the best of his age-group," he said, trying to distract himself. "He would've taken good care of us, I think. He wanted to take care of us, but I said no."

And now—Do I regret it?

Arthur surveyed the small, fire-bright cave, which smelled of deep roots, dried foliage, wood-smoke, old furs, and sweet-milk; which looked like the campsite of a vagabond. Arthur had draped the sleeping-roll over the mystery-Alpha's discarded clothes to insulate the bottom of his bed, then covered it with an old brown fur. The basket sat atop it packed with soft rabbit pelts to keep his pups warm. Arthur had been proud of his home-making accomplishments before, but now, thinking of Francis, he felt inadequate.

I'm depriving my pups of something that they need, he knew, sitting down beside the basket. We can't stay in this cave forever. They need an Alpha to protect and provide for them. And I need—

"Your papa," he said, with a catch in his voice, "wanted to stay with us."

Would that really have been so bad? Worse than this?

Alfred yawned and stretched his pudgy arms, producing a soft sound that made Arthur smile. He tickled his rosy cheek, making the blue-eyed pup squirm and blow a spit-bubble.

Matthew blinked his big violet eyes, which were wide and focused, observing—learning from—Arthur's every move. He reached upward, wanting the physical touch of his Omega-father.

Arthur complied, wanting to hold his pup just as badly. "If your papa was here," he said, rocking the violet-eyed pup gently, "it might be different for us. If he was here"—he swallowed—"I might not be so scared."

It had been five days since he had given birth to the twins; five days since he had left his brothers, his whole clan; five days since he had slept. Since leaving, he hadn't felt safe. He was trying to be brave for his newborns, but his nerves were tense, always on-edge. The rustle of small-game or a whistle of wind set him on-guard. Sleep-deprivation was making him paranoid, but he couldn't sleep for fear that something would get in and hurt his pups. He had never lived alone before, and, as the days crept by, he found himself missing his brothers more and more.

Maybe I should go back and face the consequences. Even if I am exiled, Scott would never abandon me—would he? Arthur shook his head, ashamed of his own weakness. No, I can't. It's too great a risk for my pups. He wouldn't risk his pups being rejected. He had only known them for a short time, but an Omega's bond with his pups was eternal. He would die of heartbreak if anything bad happened to them. I can't go back there. I promised myself that I wouldn't. I have to do this on my own.

He grabbed Scott's tartan and wrapped Matthew in it, pacing back-and-forth in thought.

I have to find food. I have to find a better, more permanent shelter. It has to be close to water, but far away from any settlement. Neutral territory. I have to make proper clothes for Alfred and Matthew. I have to restock my herbs and medicine in case any of us get sick. I have to store enough firewood. I have to guard us against predators. I have to prepare for winter.

Somehow, I have to survive.

And I have to do it alone.


Francis jolted awake, startled by—

He glanced from left-to-right, his reflective blue eyes scanning the moonlit meadow for predators, but there was nothing. The forest was dark and quiet. The place he had collapsed protected him from spying eyes, which is why he had chosen it. It was the base of a hollow tree, which stretched upward from a dry gully. In the distance he heard the sound of running water and the chirp of a cricket's song, but otherwise silence enveloped him.

Why did I wake? he wondered. He had been dead-asleep, so exhausted that his dreams had felt like reality. He had been dreaming of Arthur, of course, and of the night they had first met. But unlike his previous dreams (and daydreams), he had not been dreaming of mating the beautiful green-eyed Omega; rather, he had been dreaming of a pair-bonded life with him and their pups. In the dream, he and Arthur had beautiful pups, who slept soundly in their Omega-father's arms as he rocked them. Then, when the dream-Arthur noticed Francis watching him, he looked up at him and smiled. And Francis—the real Francis; not the dream-Francis—whined aloud in sorrow. It was unjust cruelty. Even the unconscious vision felt like a slap in the face, showing him something that he would never have.

Why do I want it so badly? he thought.

As an Alpha-pup growing-up on the Mainland, he had given little thought to his future, because it had been predetermined since his birth. He had flirted with dozens of Omegas, knowing that someday he would have his pick of the lot. The thought of being rejected had never even crossed his mind. Any Omega would have been a fool to refuse him back then. But now—? Maybe it's not Arthur's fault. Maybe it's me. It was a disconcerting admission, but Francis knew that he had nothing left. Why would an Omega choose me to sire his pups? I have nothing to offer him. Why did I think he would choose me just because I'd won a few stupid games? Just because I asked? So we could live in exile together? He chuckled mirthlessly. Then, enraged by his bad-luck, he punched the ground. Why did this have to happen to me? He had never gone hungry before; he had never slept in discomfort; he had never been chased away. Not until the day he had been chased from the Mainland. They would've killed me, he knew, his anger ebbing into despair. If I had stayed, they would've killed me. I made the right choice. I had to leave. I'm alive. I might not have a home or a mate, but at least I'm alive. I might never have pups, but—

Fuck.

Francis leant back against the old, gnarled tree trunk and clutched his chest. He wanted pups. He had always loved pups and had always wanted his own. It depressed him, but he could—if he really had to—accept the fact that he may never belong to a clan, or that he may never find an Omega-mate to pair-bond with. He could accept that he may have to live forever as an outcast, but when he thought of a life without pups it broke something inside of him. He had always just assumed that he would be an Alpha-father someday. It was the natural order of life. He had never had reason to consider that he might have to live the rest of his life alone.

I don't want to be alone.

Francis wiped his eyes, frustrated with himself. Why am I thinking of this now?

Could it be that he was jealous of his dream-self, who had everything that Francis did not? Pair-bonded with Arthur, being the Alpha-father of his pups. Playing with them; providing for them; protecting them. Belonging with them.

Francis sighed in defeat and laid back down. He closed his eyes and tried not to picture Arthur in his mind. He tried not to imagine how wonderful an Omega-mate he would be, or how sweet and beautiful—how completely perfect!—their pups would be. He tried not to think about how much he wanted to be wanted, or how much he needed to be needed. He tried to pretend that he wasn't secretly terrified of losing Arthur, and of being alone.

Eventually, he let himself fall back into a deep sleep full of peaceful dreams, knowing that it was the only way he could ever experience the life he wanted.

"Stupid, selfish Omega..." he sleep-talked, seeing Arthur in his mind. And he smiled.


THE NEXT DAY

Arthur was scrubbing soiled linens at the stream when a loud, angry roar sent a chill down his spine.

"ART!" Scott yelled.

The Omega jolted in shock, feeling suddenly like cornered prey. He dropped the handful of linens and scrub-brush, letting the current take it all. Scott's advance was not happy. Arthur wanted to flee, but his body was frozen in fear. The Alpha's eyes burned like wicked green witch-light, his lips pulled back over his canines in an angry sneer. "You are in so much fucking trouble!" he snarled, increasing his pace as Arthur instinctively backed away. In a spurt of self-preservation, the Omega turned and ran, but the Alpha caught his forearm and whipped him back. "What the fuck, Art? Do you have any idea how fucking worried we've all been? It's been six fucking days, you bitch! You selfish fucking brat!"

Arthur struggled in Scott's iron-like grasp, digging tracks in the soft mud. When that failed, he bit the Alpha.

"Ouch! Oi—! Arthur!"

Freed, Arthur dashed back to the cave. It was close, close enough to hear his pups if they cried. He had barely crossed the threshold, however, when Scott's big, broad shadow fell over him. In defense, Arthur grabbed a sharp rock and raised it in threat. "Stay back!" he yelled, standing protectively in front of the bedding.

"Art," Scott growled, "give me one reason why I shouldn't skin your sorry arse right here—"

Suddenly, he stopped. Rage abated into disbelief as his nostrils flared, breathing in the baby-sweet scent of milk. His gaze landed on the bed, then the basket. His nose smelled the blood of his kin. He took a step forward, but Arthur growled in warning. He hadn't growled at Scott since he was a pup, himself. It surprised the Alpha. Scott's eyes slid past Arthur's defensive stance and landed, again, on the basket, where Alfred's soft voice whined hungrily, and he exhaled in bewilderment.

"Art—?"

"Scott, please." Arthur's voice was small. "I'm sorry, okay? I'm sorry I lied. I'm sorry I left without telling you, but please don't hurt them. Scott!" he gasped as he was shoved aside. He lunged at Scott and tried to hit him with the rock, but the Alpha blocked the attack and held the weak, sleep-deprived Omega at arm's length as he looked down at the two dozing newborns. "It was an accident! I didn't mean to! Please don't hurt them!" Arthur begged.

"Hurt them—?" Scott's tone was stony, but it was his eyes that reminded the Omega of his place. Scott's gaze, when it pierced Arthur, was the embodiment of the Alpha's pride, his age and status as the head of the family; the look of a leader who did not like to be given orders. Arthur felt it and instinctively cowered in reply. His shoulders arched and his head bowed, waiting helplessly for his brother's verdict.

Please, he silently prayed, fists clenched. Please accept my pups!

When he felt that Arthur had been satisfactorily chastised, Scott released him.

"Is that how you see me, little brother? Am I really so cruel?" It was rhetorical; Arthur kept quiet. "Do you really think that I'd hurt two innocent pups? My own kin? If so, you're wrong."

Ignoring the Omega's whine of protest, Scott knelt before the basket to meet his new nephews. Arthur didn't realize that he was holding his breath as the Alpha leant down and sniffed at the two tiny pups. He was studying them, memorizing their scents and gauging their individual worth. Alfred's pudgy fists waved back-and-forth, hitting his twin's face; Matthew yowled in response. Neither of them seemed frightened by the Alpha's presence, unlike most newborns. They were either very brave little things, or they recognized a blood-relative. Scott chuckled, momentarily enamoured. Then his eyebrows lowered in concern.

"They're small," he observed. "You need to feed them more, Art. They're fragile, more delicate than the twins were," he said, implying Liam and Patrick. Then his lips curled into a proud grin. "Looks like our family has a genetic predisposition for twins, aye? They're pretty, Art. I'll give you that. There's no denying that these two are very pretty wee things."

"Thank-you," Arthur said, because he didn't know what else to say. He stood stiffly watching Scott, ready to pounce if his brother's affection turned aggressive.

Scott stood and faced him. "Why didn't you tell me?" he asked in stern accusation.

"I-I—" Arthur bowed his head. "I thought you would be angry," he said honestly.

"You're fucking right I'm angry. But not because of them," he nodded to the newborns, "and not because you spread your legs for an Alpha, either." Arthur flinched, but Scott pressed bluntly on. "I'm angry because you ran away. Or, tried to. I'm angry because you don't trust us."

"I'm sorry."

"Sorry, pft," Scott scoffed. He sighed, raking a hand absently through his vibrant locks. "Where is this Alpha of yours anyway?" he asked. His tone was casual, but his green eyes flashed dangerously. The cords of muscle in his arms and shoulders tensed.

"He's gone," Arthur answered, grateful for the first time since he had left. Francis might have been a talented sixteen-year-old, but he wouldn't stand a chance against a mature, infuriated Scott. "I sent him away."

Scott's reaction was not expected. He balked in shock. "You what?"

Arthur stepped back, putting himself between Scott and the newborns. "I, uh... sent him away," he repeated.

Clearly, Scott thought that Arthur had eloped with the Alpha-father of his pups. He hadn't been expecting to find his Omega-brother living helplessly alone with two newborns and nobody to protect them. It seemed to infuriate him more than the Omega's illegitimate pregnancy or his wordless disappearance.

"Fucking-hell, Art! Are you daft?" he snapped. Alfred whimpered and started to cry, but Scott ignored him. "Are you telling me that your wee pups don't have an Alpha? Who's going to protect them, Art? You—?" He shook his head. "Who's going to feed them, or provide for them? Who's going to care for them when you go into Heat? Don't you think they deserve more than—than this?" He gestured aimlessly at the barren cave. "Did you even think of your pups before you sent him away?"

"Stop!" Arthur snapped. "You're scaring them!" Ignoring Scott's growl of disapproval, he lifted Alfred into his arms and bounced him, trying to soothe him. "I know I made a mistake, okay? But I don't know what else to do."

"I'll tell you what to do." Deliberately, Scott stalked by Arthur and plucked Matthew from the basket. He held him with ease, and Arthur was suddenly reminded that Scott had already raised four younger brothers, two right from infancy. He was surprisingly apt at playing parent. "You're going to pack up and come back home," he ordered. "Owen and the twins have been worried sick. Did you think we wouldn't notice you'd left? We've been looking for you for six fucking days. We didn't know what had happened to you. We thought someone had carried you off."

"I'm sorry," Arthur repeated, cuddling Alfred in shame. He couldn't meet Scott's eyes. "But you know I can't go back. The clan-laws—"

"Hang the fucking clan-laws!" Scott yelled, making Arthur flinch. Alfred wailed. "I'm the head of the family and I'm ordering you to come home now. Let me worry about the fucking clan-laws, you selfish little—"

"I said I was sorry!" Arthur interrupted. He felt himself shaking; in fear, or rage—or something else, perhaps.

Scott squared his shoulders, standing taller. He eyed his younger brother in threat. "Oh, you're going to be," he agreed. "You're going to get down on your hands-and-knees and fucking beg your brothers for forgiveness. You're going to apologize for all the fucking worry you've caused. Then we're going to pretend this"—he indicated the cave—"never happened. Is that crystal-fucking-clear?"

Mutely, Arthur nodded.

"Good." Scott's anger simmered. He adjusted Matthew, who, unbelievably, had fallen asleep in his arms. "Then let's go."


What about the clan?" Arthur asked.

He was sitting on a fallen log, nursing a cuppa tea, and watching as his brothers fawned over their nephews. Owen had Matthew swaddled in Scott's tartan and was pacing back-and-forth and rocking him gently, while Liam and Patrick sat beside Alfred's basket, making affectionate faces at him and tickling his rosy, apple-round cheeks. It was a relief that they, too, had accepted the newborns. Alphas didn't often accept the pups of outsiders—or worse, bastard-pups—into their family. More often than not, the pup(s) would be drowned or left for dead. It was considered a mercy, since they couldn't fend for themselves. Arthur had been terrified that Scott, who placed so much value in bloodlines, would reject Alfred and Matthew. But he hadn't. He had accepted them, and Arthur was eternally grateful. Maybe it's because they're both Omegas, he considered. (Omega-pups posed less of a threat than Alpha-pups did.) Regardless, the other Kirkland Alphas hadn't been nearly as angry as Scott when Arthur had reappeared toting the two newborns. Owen had howled in relief and nearly bowled him over in an attempt to embrace Arthur. He stopped, of course, when he saw the basket with the pups, and settled for patting his Omega-brother's blonde head instead. As promised, Scott had taken the pups and made Arthur kneel on the grass to beg the forgiveness of his brothers, which the twins found hilarious. It was a humbling experience that Arthur resolved not to repeat in future. A long, frequently interrupted explanation followed as the Alphas asked questions and revealed shock at the Omega's confessions. Owen, especially, gaped at his younger brother, as if the pieces of a complex puzzle finally fit into place.

"I just can't believe that you did it all alone," he said in bafflement. The twins nodded in agreement. If Arthur squinted, he could see a shred of pride in his four Alpha-brothers' eyes.

Scott had replied for him, saying simply: "He's a Kirkland," as if that explained it all.

"Scott?" Arthur prompted now, glancing at the eldest for advice.

"I told you not to worry about it. Just focus on being a father to those pups," he nodded to the two newborns, "and leave the clan-laws to me.

"Art," he added, noting Arthur's concern. In a friendly gesture, he punched the Omega's shoulder too hard; Arthur nearly lost his balance. Scott chuckled. "It's going to be okay, little brother. I won't let them take your wee pups. And I won't let them exile you, I promise. You might not have an Alpha-mate, but you've got me. You're my kin, Art, and so are Alfred and Matthew. I'll protect you."

Arthur bowed his head, letting tangled wheat-blonde hair hide his face. He didn't want Scott to see the tears in his eyes.


THE NEXT DAY

Arthur hugged Alfred, trying to settle the unruly pup as he wriggled and fussed, drawing unwanted attention from the surrounding pack-members. The packs had discovered Arthur's infringement quickly once he agreed to go back to the Standing Stones. He had barely been reunited with his brothers before the pack's second-in-command was standing at their campsite, accusing him of breaking the clan-law:

"It's illegal to mate without the pack-leader's consent," he growled authoritatively. He was a very self-entitled Alpha, who was a cousin of the Clan Leader. "It's illegal for pups to live within the pack without an Alpha. If the pack-leader refuses to accept responsibility for them"—which he would; pack-leaders adopted orphans, not bastards—"you will be exiled along with your pups, Arthur Kirkland. If the pack-leader consents to let you stay," he snorted, thinking it unlikely, "then your pups will immediately be put to death."

Arthur didn't flinch. "If the pack-leader rejects my pups, I'll leave," he said bravely, glaring at the second-in-command. "You can exile me, but you will not hurt my pups."

"So be it," said the second-in-command. Then he left, and Arthur's bravery deflated into a panic-attack.

It wasn't long before others started to spy on the Kirkland family, wondering what the commotion was about. As soon as the second-in-command left, neighbours flocked indiscreetly over to investigate. It wasn't a hard puzzle to solve, and word of Arthur's newborns travelled fast, especially when all of the Island clans were gathered together. By nightfall, there wasn't a single person who hadn't heard the gossip about the Kirkland Omega, and Arthur unwittingly found himself the talk-of-the-night. Of course, his clan was the only one who took the accusations seriously, because it involved one of their own. For everyone else, it was little more than a joke. Rival pack-members took bets on who the pups' Alpha-father could be, and many bet on Francis—much to Arthur's horror—though none of them knew him by name and simply called him the Mainlander.

"Stay here. I'll be back," Scott ordered. Then he had left, refusing to say where he was going. By sunset, even Owen was getting worried by Scott's lack of return, but return he did. He looked weary, but determined. "It's all been arranged," he said to Arthur, who merely blinked in misunderstanding. Scott said: "I've challenged the pack-leader. At dawn tomorrow I'll fight him. The Clan Leader will oversee it. If I win then I'll become the pack-leader and your fate, and the wee pups' fate, will be my decision. If I win you'll be safe, Art."

"When," said Owen. His handsome face had lost its colour, betraying his fear, but he clapped Scott's shoulder in support. He exchanged a glance with the twins—all of them knew what losing implied—then cleared his throat and repeated confidently: "When you win."

Scott nodded.

Arthur's heart pounded now as Scott entered the circle of eager spectators to meet the present pack-leader. The blinding light of dawn coloured the middle-aged Alpha in gold, making his profile look like a shadow against the rising sun. Just behind him stood the Clan Leader, who wore what was believed to be a direwolf's pelt as a sign of his position, as well as the Clan Leader's Omega-mate. Unabashed, she kissed the pack-leader's cheek for good-luck, which was a subtle symbol of support. Fuck, Arthur thought, knowing how influential she was. In reply, the spectators howled in agreement, voicing support for the present pack-leader. "Fuck," Arthur cursed aloud, glancing at Owen. The twenty-year-old Alpha was tense. He cradled Matthew gently, but otherwise he looked ready to strike. He's nervous, Arthur recognized. He's just as nervous as I am. When their green eyes met, Arthur saw his older brother's fear. Both of them knew that if Scott was defeated and killed, Owen would assume responsibility for the Kirkland family, and he would have a choice to make: to second Scott's challenge and fight the pack-leader, or to let Arthur and his newborns be exiled. It was a decision that he didn't want to have to make.

As Scott stepped into position, Owen's lips began whispering a mantra of good-luck. Arthur stepped closer to him, lessening the gap between Owen, the pups, and himself. Liam and Patrick were pacing in an absent figure-eight around Arthur and Owen, growling to discourage unwanted attention, but they stopped when Scott entered the circle and moved to flank their older brothers. The foursome—and newborns—stood alone, except for a few pack-members who valued Scott as a friend and potential leader. Arthur was grateful to them and knew that they would be rewarded if Scott won.

When, not if. When Scott wins, he corrected.

The fight began without a signal. Scott struck first. He leapt at his opponent in a lightning-fast attack that the other Alpha couldn't dodge. The pack-leader was hit by Scott's full weight, but he deflected most of the damage. Scott regained his balance quickly and struck again, using his superior speed to his advantage. He was at least ten years the pack-leader's junior, and his body, though broad and heavy, moved like a whip. Arthur watched in amazement as his older brother maintained control of the fight. He was so impressed by Scott's skills, he nearly forgot to be terrified on his brother's behalf. Instead, he watched, awe-struck, as Scott fought a battle that didn't belong to him.

"I didn't know he could move like that," Arthur said, impressed.

"He's never had to before," Owen replied.

The unspoken implication in Owen's tone was clear: It's because of you, Arthur. He's doing it to protect you.

It sent a shiver down Arthur's spine.

As the fight raged, pack-members yelling and howling in excitement, Arthur realized that it was exactly what he had been trying to avoid by running away.

This is my fault, he thought. Scott wouldn't have challenged the pack-leader if it wasn't for me. He wouldn't be fighting to protect me, all of us, from disgrace. He wouldn't be fighting for his life. If I had never met Francis, if I hadn't gotten pregnant

He was feeling increasingly panicked when, suddenly, Alfred yowled in reply to the noises bombarding him and his little fist clutched Arthur's shirt in comfort. And in that moment Arthur's guilt evaporated. He looked down at tiny Alfred, then over at Matthew, who was staring wide-eyed in wonder as he watched the shapes and colours of the vicious fight, and all at once Arthur knew the truth in his heart:

I don't regret it. I don't regret any of it, not letting Francis mate me and not getting pregnant. If I hadn't, I wouldn't have Alfred and Matthew. I wouldn't have the pups whom I love now more than anything in the world. I'm sorry, Scott. I'm so sorry that I've put you in this position—the pack-leader pounced and sunk his canines into Scott's shoulder and Scott yelped—but I'm not sorry for what I've done. I'm not sorry for what I now have. Please, forgive me. Please, don't lose this fight. I need you to win, brother. Not for me, but for my pups. Please, Scott. Please—

"Kick his fucking arse, Scott!" Arthur yelled at the top of his voice. It was spontaneous. He didn't realize that he had spoken—yelled—until Owen and the twins suddenly joined him. Together they ignored the insults and threats of the other pack-members and shouted at their older brother in vicious encouragement.

Scott, who had started to struggle, cast a glance back at his brothers in surprise. As their voices reached him, yelling support, advice, and well-intended insults (from the twins), the Alpha's blood-freckled face split into a wicked grin and a spirited fire rekindled in his Lincoln-green eyes. When he caught Arthur's equally-green gaze, he nodded as if to say: Don't worry, Arthur, I won't lose. A great bark of laughter escaped him and he threw his whole body wildly at his opponent, determined to win at all costs.

It ended quickly after that. The present—previous—pack-leader fell down dead on the grass, and Scott stood over his body, panting and injured in victory. The four Kirkland brothers rushed to Scott, but stopped when the Clan Leader stepped forward. Scott fell to his knees, his head bowed; in respect or because he was so badly injured, Arthur couldn't tell. The old Clan Leader studied him for the longest minute of Arthur's life, then placed a hand on Scott's red head. Arthur let out a sigh of relief. It was a symbol of acceptance, confirming that the challenge had been issued and fought fairly, and finally won with the Clan Leader's blessing. In a booming voice, he announced:

"I have a new pack representative: Allistor Kirkland. Does anyone dispute my word?" No one moved, though Arthur saw the Clan Leader's Omega-mate narrow her eyes. "Well then," he continued bluntly, "what are you waiting for?" He gestured to the Alpha members of the pack that Scott had just inherited. "On your knees and swear loyalty to your new pack-leader."

Owen offered Scott a hand, then stood beside him as each Alpha pack-member stepped forward and bowed his head in acknowledgement of Scott's authority. He leant heavily on Owen, Arthur noticed, but his face was a mask of self-satisfied victory. He looked strong. He looked like a leader. When the Clan Leader asked Scott if he would take responsibility for Arthur's pups and be their Alpha for as long as Arthur didn't have an Alpha-mate, he didn't hesitate. He accepted the responsibility and he did it very publicly, ensuring that every pack-member knew that Alfred and Matthew belonged to his family and were under his protection. Arthur's heart swelled at Scott's selfless declaration. It had been too long since he had felt truly safe, without hiding secrets. He wanted to tell Scott just how grateful he was, but he didn't know how. Scott wasn't someone who needed words of affirmation; none of the Kirkland brothers were. (Frankly, words made them all rather uncomfortable.) Instead, Arthur stood beside Scott as he accepted loyalty oaths from the Alphas, who each promised to accept Alfred and Matthew as Scott's heirs. As he watched, Arthur saw several unasked questions lurking behind each pack-member's eyes, wondering why such an eligible Alpha as Scott Kirkland would surrender his right to have an Omega-mate for the sake of his brother's illegitimate pups.

(To avoid the problems associated with polygamy, an Alpha was only allowed to be responsible for one adult Omega at a time, whether or not they were mates. He could be responsible for as many pups as necessary.)

The consequence of Scott's decision meant that, until Arthur had an Alpha-mate to replace Scott—which was unlikely now that the clans knew he had already been mated—he and his two pups would stay under Scott's protection because it was illegal for them to live in the pack without an Alpha. And on Scott's part, he wouldn't be able to take an Omega-mate for himself until another Alpha agreed to take Arthur. The clan-laws were in place to ensure that nobody was neglected and left un-provided for, but the reality of it meant that Scott was unlikely to ever have an Omega-mate because he was now shackled to undesirable Arthur. It was a heavy sacrifice, especially for a pack-leader.

Arthur wished that he knew what to say to his brother in thanks, but whenever he got the chance to speak to Scott alone, words failed him. The best he could do was stay faithfully by Scott's side, as Scott had always stood by his.

Finally, the Clan Leader clasped Scott's hand and showed he and his four brothers a discrete half-smile. The Clan Leader had always liked Scott, and, though he was supposed to be impartial to the minor changes in leadership, Arthur could see that he was glad of the change. Scott accepted the Clan Leader's subtle congratulations in a dignified manner, looking proud but not arrogant. Looking strong, like the leader he had become.

It wasn't until the five Kirkland brothers had safely returned to their campsite, hidden from spies, that Scott finally unclenched his teeth and growled in pain:

"Pup-of-a-fucking-bitch!"

He whined and moaned like a pup as Arthur cleaned and bandaged his many wounds, several of which were disconcertingly deep. The previous pack-leader had not been a weakling and had fought hard to the bitter end. (Scott said that he wouldn't have wanted it any other way. He had respected the previous pack-leader, and out of respect as much as necessity was determined to be a good successor.) "Here," Arthur said, handing his older brother a waterskin full of scotch. Scott grabbed it and gulped down the contents greedily, letting the alcohol numb the pain. Then he belched loudly and licked his lips. Arthur rolled his eyes.

"So," Scott settled back on his sleeping-roll, feigning nonchalance, "I don't recall any of you swearing loyalty to the new pack-leader," he teased.

Owen, Liam, and Patrick exchanged an ironic glance. On behalf of the trio, Liam said: "Fuck you."

Scott barked in laughter, but he stopped immediately when Arthur knelt beside him. The others quieted, too, watching as their only Omega-brother took Scott's bandaged hand and bowed his head in gratitude.

"Thank-you," he said softly.

In reply, he felt Scott's free hand rest gently on his wheat-blonde head. He said: "You're welcome."